


Ellis

by lumenlunae



Category: Jane Eyre - Charlotte Brontë, Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25089835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumenlunae/pseuds/lumenlunae
Summary: Marielle Bole proclaims her affection towards Ellis Bell. Diary entries.
Kudos: 1





	Ellis

11th of August, 1842. Bruxelles.

Yes, I might have been captured by Emily. I didn’t even exchange words her nor did I ever hear her voice aloud. But everyone knew what she’d sound like – or so they said.  
Caroline once said that her father was an English tradesman who died when Emily was only seven months old. But frivolous Caroline also said that Emily had an affair with the principal, and that was indeed untrue. How come I know, you might ask? Well, because the principle is a woman, and Emily for sure is not interested in them. In fact, I believe that she is not romantically interested in any human being.  
But what I believe does not matter. It matters what I know. And what I know is that Emily left this Sunday morning with her sister to visit her family. They will be gone for a long time if they’re travelling to Britain, I suppose. But I didn’t pay attention in geography class, at least not to the teacher. Mister Benjamin must be a wonderful lecturer but I’d rather fancy the leaves falling off the autumn trees or Emily’s chignon of the day, if she chose to let her sister help her with it. Otherwise, she is sent off by the principal and doing god knows what, hence why people think she spends too much time at the principal’s office. I for myself heard her play the piano there one day, when I was sent off for not participating in Miss Bole’s explanations of Latin grammar.  
Emily would have never been sent off for said reason. She is educated on Latin, Greek and even French, which I reckon she speaks more eloquent than me, a native speaker. And here I am, writing in English and not forming my words to express what I actually want to expel. My unpolished use of words cannot compete with her fluid expressions, so breath taking that when she speaks the whole class will take a moment of silence afterwards to return to the not so soothing reality of our desolate lecture hall. 

20th of September, 1842. Bruxelles.

She does not put her mourning into words, but everyone at this institution knows even Madame Heger notices the absence of her concealed and silent elegance in the corridors. She has been gone for a month now and we all know who will return from this journey and who will not. I asked Miss Bole if I could’ve consoled Emily’s sister about her wellbeing but she sent me away to practice my translation work.  
I do not dwell to worry but I care. I bet she’s on her beloved moorland that she wrote about in her third and last essay. I recalled it from memory and wrote it down so that I can have a little solace.

12th of November, 1842. Bruxelles.

Emily has been absent for two draconic periods and I slowly fathom that she won’t return to the academy. This morbid longing is making it implausibly strenuous to be attentive. I can feel myself getting carried away by the thoughts of her and I can feel myself breaking. My pride has been taken and I do not demand to continue the hell that life is without her.  
Miss Bole’s nephew has visited the academy and I came to realise that he is not here to study the arts of language. He came to marry and he will leave with a bride by his side and I am aware who will profit of his advances.

29th of December, 1858. Charleroi.

Sir Bole revealed my peripeteia for the world to see. I will no longer write about you, Emily, or you, dear reader. I know that she has been gone for decades. As a good wife I can only hope he will forgive and forget, or else I’ll be gone for good.

Spring of 1959. Bruxelles.

Miss M. Bole did not continue her writing after the 29th of December 1858. Some utter she died off her husband’s bloodstained hands, who could not endure that she was never his and always captured by my dear sister. Others glean that she must have fallen into the river, while she was collecting heather on the land that her beloved admired. Must she not go to hell, I pray for her intentions never being to cherish the dead. These oeuvres have been gathered at Monsieur Heger’s bureau. You must not worry about their remaining, my dearest Marielle.

**Author's Note:**

> This merely has anything to do with wuthering heights. I moreso took the story of Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre and Helen Burns and intertwined it with what I know about Emily Brontë's biography, or moreso her sojourn at Law Hill.  
> Additionally, this writing is by no means biographically accurate.


End file.
